


Dead Man Walking

by Starlithorizon



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Gen, I have no idea where this came from, Plane Crashes, more than a little weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:57:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crew winds up crashing in the middle of a flight, and its sole survivor must find his treacherous way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Man Walking

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd, not Brit-picked, and not written with any medical/plane/bar knowledge. That is what creative license and guessing is for.

The first few seconds after noting trouble with the plane were among the worst he had ever known. At first, he'd just brushed it away, citing it as _the plane who cried wolf_. But when other lights and an alarm and a panicked Martin all burst into cacophonous life, his stomach fell thirty thousand feet. It wasn't the mechanical warnings that got him so much as the fear in his captain's voice. While Martin regularly flustered, he never truly expressed _fear_.

In the roaring noise of trouble, he dimly recalled his training and worked with Martin to get the plane to cooperate. Listening to Martin throwing mayday over the radio felt like a crushing defeat. He hoped that Carolyn and Arthur would be all right.

Static cut through Martin's frenetic distress calls and there was a harsh moment of silence trapped between layers of rambunctious horror. The port engine was down for the count, and nothing was responding the way it ought to. He could only close his eyes and pray for a quick death when he realised that landing at this velocity would certainly no longer be termed as _landing_.

His last thought before hazy blackness descended was of his daughter.

* * *

His first thought upon the ascension of that hazy blackness was a simple one. Nothing profound or insightful rang through his head, just a grinding feeling of _ow_. He hurt all over, from his head to his joints to his back to his skin. It wasn't some fierce agony ripping through him, just a dull and miserable ache humming everywhere.

The next thing he registered was the acrid smell of smoke. The plane's alarms were silent, but they rang violently in his aching head. His eyes snapped open and he was hit with the _silence_ everywhere. It was thicker than the smoke, just as suffocating and opaque.

He sat up, groaning, hand moving uncertainly to his head when a rush of pain nearly overwhelmed him.

"Martin?" he asked, the billowing black smoke clouding everything in sight. He coughed thickly, hideously. "Martin, are you all right?"

The silence was worse than the smoke. It was the single worst thing he had ever known. He waited a moment, assuming that the silence meant that Martin was unconscious, not—not anything else.

When the worst of the smoke cleared, he first noted the mangled wreckage that was once the flight deck. The windscreen was shattered inward, a damning note of impact. They had landed in a grassy field that was as green as it was empty. The lushness of the field did not make him feel better, as it was completely desolate. It felt as though there hadn't been a soul here for _years_.

He turned his head, nearly bowled over by the nausea riding the tremendous wave of pain. Martin was slumped over the control panel, battered and bloodied. Unbreathing. Douglas felt panic creep in slowly, doubt on its heels. Perhaps he simply hadn't looked in the right place and Martin was breathing perfectly well. He unhooked his safety belt and slithered to the floor, struggling the brief distance to his captain. The flight deck was at a peculiar angle, and moving was awkward at best.

"Martin!" Douglas croaked, laying a heavy hand over the younger man's shoulder. He shook it, perhaps a bit frantically. "Martin, wake up!"

Martin flopped back, and if the slack muscles weren't indication enough, his sea glass eyes were open and staring blankly, empty as the sky above them.

"Nonononono," Douglas muttered to himself. He drew forth as much of his medical knowledge as he was able, willing the horror away. He pressed his fingers to Martin's carotid artery, already knowing that there would be no pulse. He found the bluntest shard of glass he could find and held it lightly under Martin's nose, quietly certain that there would be no breath to fog it over.

He couldn't allow himself the luxury of grief just yet. There would be time when he knew that the others were okay, or at least _alive_. He clawed his way into the cabin, fairly throwing himself at the jammed door and _up_ , as the whole plain was tilted down, nose to the ground.

"Carolyn!" he shouted. "Arthur!"

More silence greeted him. It was broken by the soft crackle of fire and birdsong. There was more clawing, vicious this time, and he hauled himself into the galley. Arthur was sprawled over the floor, blood pooled beneath his head in a dark red halo. His big hazel eyes, perpetually shining and brilliant, empty as Martin's.

Douglas lay his tattered jacket over his friend's face after closing his eyes.

He repeated the small funeral rites for Carolyn, draping an emergency blanket over her prone body in the back of the cabin.

For Martin, he used another emergency blanket, the cheery orange colour so horrid in the putrid wreckage.

He didn't know how he had been the only one to survive, but he didn't care. He felt like a tsunami had washed through him, leaving him empty and devastated.

He climbed desperately from the fuselage, falling to the ground in a crumpled heap. He simply curled deeper into himself and sobbed, overwhelmed with the tragedy and rage.

* * *

By the time he found his feet again, the sun was just beginning to set. Blue coldness stole through the edges of his uniform, snaking down along his skin and slowing freezing him. He trudged through that green, green field, sluggish and broken. Everything had been fine until it simply _wasn't_. One moment, they were all right, flying over Ireland and making an easy cargo flight. The next moment, the left engine was aflame and everything was malfunctioning at once. The moment after that, Douglas woke up and everyone was dead. It was horror of the highest degree.

After about twenty minutes of walking, he stopped suddenly and remembered his mobile. The one that had been in the inside pocket of his jacket. The one that was covering Arthur's body.

He couldn't go back for his phone, though. He would rather walk an unknown distance over unknown land than return to that wreckage. It cast blackness over his heart and sent him spiraling ever onward, ever forward, ever more alone.

* * *

The first light he came upon was a small pub on the end of a small road. He staggered in gratefully, the warmth sinking deeply into his aching bones.

"What can I get you?" the barman asked. Douglas dithered a moment, feeling for his wallet and finding it, thankfully, in his trouser pocket.

There was another moment of dithering, of wanting, of _needing_.

"Whiskey, neat," he said, sinking heavily on the bar stool. The man behind the bar nodded and went about pouring Douglas's drink. He placed it in front of Douglas, and all he could do was stare at the amber liquid. He sighed deeply before asking what he owed, riffling though the euros in his wallet. The barman held up a hand.

"On the house, mate. If you don't mind my saying so, you look like shit."

A tiny smile turned the corner of his lips up. There was nothing positive in that smile.

"Well, to tell the truth, I certainly feel it. Have you got a phone I can use? I... I lost mine."

"Yeah, no problem."

He handed Douglas the wireless handset and moved further down the bar to provide some semblance of privacy. They were alone in the pub, and Douglas could only imagine how he looked to this stranger.

Slowly, with fingers that shook slightly, he dialed his ex-wife's number. While they weren't exactly amiable, his relationship with her was significantly less than toxic. And after hearing about the... After hearing what he had to say, she would likely take pity on him. He wasn't sure what he wanted to get out of is, but he desperately needed to hear his daughter's voice.

The phone was answered on the third ring, with his ex-wife speaking easily down the line. Douglas bit back a sob.

"Thank God," he choked out. "Lisa, please, let me speak to Hannah."

There was a confused pause before she spoke again.

"You _just_ rang, Douglas," she said, voice decidedly sharp. "What else could you have to say? And why do you sound so, I don't know, _deranged_?"

He frowned at his gnarled hand on the bar. It was fairly stained with blood. He had no idea whose it was, and that was the worst part.

"I think you're mistaken. I haven't phoned her today." He managed to hold onto his cool, easy demeanor, but only just.

" _Right_ ," she said acidicly. "Hannah's doing her homework, you can ring her tomorrow."

"Lisa, no, just— Lisa!"

He was yelling down a dead phone line.

He slowly rang off and pushed the phone over to the barman. He put the handset back into the cradle. Douglas went to the loo, more of a need to scrub the blood from his skin than anything. When he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, he had to stifle a near scream. How had the barman been so calm? Half of his head was caked in dried blood, there were a dozen little cuts all over his face, and the blood had dripped all over he rest of his face, leaving him quite horrifically gruesome. His hair was a bit singed as well, and he just looked haggard and _unbelievably_ tired.

He did his best at scrubbing some of the blood from his face and hands, but he'd ended up opening more of the cuts on his skin, so he just gave up.

Back at the bar, his whiskey glittered tauntingly in the low light, laughter ringing from the bottom of the glass. He stared at it for a few long moments. It would be so easy, just wrap a hand around the glass and bring it to his lips. Inhale its aroma, wait a moment. Take just the smallest sip, feel its warmth in the back of his throat. Swallow it down. Try to make the next sip last, but then knock the whole thing back, calling for another as the bottom of the glass hits the bar.

It would be

so

easy.

"Please, where is the nearest hospital?" he asked.

The barman stared at him and blinked after a bit.

"Did you drive here?" he inquired, doubt laced in his words. Douglas shook his head. "Thought not. Give me a minute to lock up and I'll drive you, mate. You look like you'll fall over the second you walk out that door."

It was an apt enough assessment, which was how Douglas found himself in the passenger seat of Francis the Barman's car.

* * *

He was allowed to stay overnight when he told the doctors that he had been in an accident and had no way home. They understood that he'd been though some tragedy, though they had no idea how horrible.

In the morning, with stitches in his face and scalp and bandages covering the nasty burns he'd acquired on his palms without noticing, he was given a ride to the nearest airport by a nurse who'd just gotten off. She dropped him off near the ticket desk with a smile and a quick murmur of _good luck_. God, how he needed it.

"One ticket to Fitton, please," he said, offering his most charming smile at the ticket agent. It was quite difficult to smile charmingly with stitches all over his face, and the effort fell far short. She barely looked at him.

"We have a spot available, taking off in about half an hour," she told him. He nodded and thanked her profusely, paying and nearly running to the gate.

It was a small aeroplane, belonging to Herc's company. What was it? Scottish McAir wasn't right. Ah, Air Caledonia. Yes.

He boarded the plane, sinking heavily into his seat. It was so strange to be in a plane as a passenger.

When they landed in Fitton after a blessedly short flight, he stood there, staring at the airfield. He would never come here to fly again. He'd likely return to deal with his crew's possessions, and that was about it. It was horrible. He went to the PortaKabin first, hoping to torment himself with some of Arthur's scattered paintings and Martin's obsessively tidy workspace and Carolyn's mug on the worktop.

Steeling himself for the onslaught, he opened the door.

What he saw was, well, certainly not what he expected. At all. In any world.

Carolyn, Martin, and Arthur were gaping at him, resembling goldfish quite closely. He wasn't sure how to respond. He wanted to say something scathingly sardonic, but he couldn't. He couldn't say a _word_. Tears clouded his vision, hot and angry and confused, or maybe it was blood pouring in from his open head wound. He took a step forward, hand outstretched as though to touch one of them, and his knees gave way. It hurt, falling to the ground in such a fashion, but he couldn't possibly care. They were here, they were _alive_.

"Carolyn, are you seeing—" Martin asked unsteadily, eyes flicking in her direction.

"Yes," she hissed. "I am."

"You're, you're _alive_ ," Douglas gasped, and it was a sob caught on his tongue like a barb. Arthur blinked.

"Skip, what's going on?" There was fear in his voice.

"I don't—"

"What are you all staring at?" came a horrifically familiar voice. All of the blood drained from Douglas's face as he looked up at _himself_.

Blackness overtook him again, much as it had before the crash.

* * *

He woke up late, far later than he meant. His alarm clock blared at him, shrieking at him to _wake up, dammit._ He turned it off, sat up, and scrubbed a weary hand over his face. The dregs of a dream were clouding his mind, clinging to the curves inside his skull and leaving him feeling uncomfortably nervous. The feeling persisted as he got ready for work, and as he drove to the airfield.

The pieces dissipated completely when he walked into the Portakabin, Martin and Arthur offering _good morning_ s and Carolyn glowering.

All he remembered of his dream was getting stitches in his face.

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely apologize, and I have _no_ idea where this came from. I was listening to "Dead Man Walking" by Tumbledown, and was sitting here, like, "Oh, hm, that's an interesting idea!" and then this happened. I'm still not sure how this came about though, really. I'd meant for it to be quite a bit different, but I still like it well enough, I guess.


End file.
